


Music of my heart

by Esthree



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Everybody Lives, Family, Gen, M/M, it's all about the harp, kind of fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-30
Updated: 2015-06-30
Packaged: 2018-04-07 00:11:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,751
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4241985
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Esthree/pseuds/Esthree
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's post-BoTFA AU where everybody lives (happily ever after)). Erebor is restored and prosperious. Dwalin is celebrating his 250-th birthday. And he asks one special gift from Thorin.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Music of my heart

**Author's Note:**

> It was written under the influence of one beautiful song, played by Alizbar: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LuD5TNbiML4  
> and another one, which is actually a composition from a computer game by Kirill Pokrovsky: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZLs6y5xQA74
> 
> And once again - thanks to Saetha, an amazing Beta, who corrected all sorts of mistakes in the text (and there were plenty of them ))

 

Dwalin tightens his belt, checks the fastening of his axe one more time and straightens out his coat. He has the momentary idea to put on his fur cloak, but it’s not really cold today, and besides he has a training lesson in the afternoon. Perhaps it’s this training (or torture as the young dwarfs like to call it) that helps him to stay fit in spite of his old – even for a dwarf – age. As a king’s counselor he has no need to instruct the soldiers personally, but he likes the feeling of his battle-axe in his hand too much – for long years it had almost become the extension of his arm. And he absolutely loves to drill the recruits, his training making them experienced warriors. After all, the fighting efficiency of Erebor’s army is his duty.

Behind him he hears the grinding sound of an ink-pot shifted across the table, followed by a long sigh. Dwalin spits in his palm, smoothes his coarse snow-white mane and turns to Thorin raising his eyebrows.

The look on his face could be interpreted as slightly worried about whatever might darken the thoughts of His Majesty or, as someone who knows Dwalin personally would say: ‘What the fuck did befall you this time?’ Anyway, their more than bicentennial relationship allows them to understand each other without words.

Thorin rises from his armchair and throws the broken quill on the table, giving Dwalin a lopsided smile.

“I have no idea what present to give you,” he admits finally.

Dwalin snorts, his eyebrows going even higher which is tantamount to an extremely obscene expression in Khuzdul, not one that can be found in the annals. One of the candles in its silver holder cracks loudly, spilling melted wax. Thorin lowers himself on the edge of the table, and guides his hand absently through the trembling light of the candle.

“I’m afraid that, after all these years, I simply ran out of ideas.”

It’s not such a fabulous thing to admit, taking into consideration that in a week Dwalin is going to celebrate his two hundred and fiftieth birthday, and he and Thorin have known each other since childhood. As members of the royal family, they presented each other with rare weapons and useful tools, elaborate trinkets and magic charms when they were young dwarves in Erebor. Even during their wandering round the world and utter misery they kept this tradition, though the presents were small and modest: the last pinch of pipeweed or a few arrows whittled during the night watch. During the last decennia there were no such troubles with the whole treasury of Erebor at their disposal. Jewelry made of gold and gems, fine furniture and pure-bred ponies, ranks and titles – Dwalin couldn’t complain of Thorin's lack of attention.

The old warrior smirks when his thoughts carry him to the very first, priceless gift, without cause, without any precise date. Everyone has always known about his unbending loyalty to his king and found it natural that he had Thorin’s trust – an old friend who had shielded his king’s back in so many battles, who had saved his life numerous times. It was true of course, and at the same time it was only one part of truth. Nobody besides Dwalin knew about the beginning – that complete and utter trust presented to him long before he had done anything to deserve it. And he knows that he would go through fire and water, endure any torture and let himself be cut into pieces rather than betraying this trust. Because it’s worth all of it.

Dwalin ponders the matter for a moment.

“What if I ask you to satisfy one of my wishes?”

“Sweet Mahal! I can’t believe that after all these years you still have something…” The king cuts himself short and snorts. “Well, I’m glad to know that at least one of us still has his imagination working.”

“So?” Dwalin asks.

“Fine. I promise.”

 

***

The young prince’s training included all sorts of disciplines - such as ceremonials of the court, dance, fencing, riding, the basics of versification and of course playing music - and was meticulously regulated by ancient rules and traditions. But the choice of the musical instrument was his mother’s.

“The harp?” Thráin drawled hesitantly. “Not exactly a boyish thing, is it?”

“Nonsense! It’s a king’s instrument!” snapped his wife.

Being an excellent harpist herself, the wife of the crown prince had declared that everyone in her family regardless of sex would played the harp, so she wasn’t going to break the centuries-old custom and wouldn’t let anybody else do it either. Thráin accepted her choice. According to him, the only instrument that every dwarf should wield without fail was a hammer. An axe, a sword or a spear – all were optional. But Thorin was too small to teach him battle science or blacksmith work yet, and anything else was of no worry to his father: so let it be the harp.

Thus the rooms of the young prince saw an enigmatic, fascinating and incredibly beautiful guest. It was made of a sonorous elven cedar, trimmed with mahogany and inlaid with silver and nacre. Its elegant curve resembled a mighty bow, and Thorin found himself captivated at once by the magnificent instrument.

At first his mother taught him herself. She was patiently revealing to him the secrets of the skill and introduced him to the powerful and amazing world of music. Later, when Frerin grew and demanded more and more of his mother’s attention, an old king’s musician took her place. Along with practical exercises, he searched the library for ancient manuscripts and introduced the prince to the works of renowned elven masters and popular human ballads.

The old dwarf didn’t palter with truth when telling Thorin’s mother that the prince had great talent. His young nimble fingers were flying over the strings, playing solemn anthems and lyrical arias with equal ease and he had a keen ear to do even the most difficult compositions without a single false note. Thráin’s wife had every right to be proud of her son.

But most of all Thorin loved to compose his own melodies. The harp had become his faithful companion, one to whom he confided his secrets and his dreams. Like a living being it responded willingly with a delicate silver tune to every impulse of his young heart, easily guessing his mood, sharing with him the joy of the first victories and alleviating his sorrows.

It went on for a few years and might have lasted further if not for a certain conversation in the armory where the young dwarves were preparing for the training session.

“My uncles are dropping in today. I bet they are going to get tight, and my father too,” the son of the first king’s counselor, a stocky blond boy, said, fastening his vambraces.

“There’s a party in my family too,” the nephew of the chief-guard with wild ginger hair boasted, whilst smoothing his quilted shirt under the chainmail. “My cousin has come of age today, there’s going to be a carouse with wine and ale!”

“I’ve heard they’ve brought elven wine into the palace, twenty barrels at least! How I’d like to taste it,” the blond boy winked slyly. “I hope there’ll be a chance after diner, when everyone gets the instruments and starts playing and singing…”

“I wish there would,” replied the guard’s nephew. “But my brother and I will be made to play the flute as usual. My father is a master of the viol himself, like my mother with her tambourine, and my uncle can bang his drum for hours!”

“And my father taught me to blow the horn,” said the younger brother of a chief architect, weighing his training axe. “Every single day. My mother was swearing like a fishwife.”

“And my mum often asks me to play the violin,” proclaimed the counselor’s son. “To accompany her singing. And when my father takes his clarinet, they go dancing all around with my sister.”

“Thorin,” The redheaded boy turned to Thorin, “what do you play?”

“The harp,” Thorin said absently deciding which one of the two swords to take to the session. Suddenly he heard a burst of laughter behind his back.

“The _harp_?”

“Do you, really?”

“It’s a girlish instrument…”

Thorin turned around swiftly.

“What did you say?” he asked in an icy tone.

“Err…” the boy seemed to be taken aback. “Only girls play the harp, you know...”

“Girls, you say,” Thorin narrowed his eyes and threw a threatening glance at the insolent little dwarf, “We’ll see who is a girl here!”

His training sword cut the air and clashed with the axe of the blond dwarf. Within seconds Thorin disarmed his opponent and pointed his sword at the boy’s chest.

“Anybody else wants to say something?” he looked at his companions.

“Err… no.”

“It was a joke…”

“Yes, we didn’t mean it.”

At this moment their instructor entered the room and called them to begin their training. The boys hurried to take their weapons and strode to the training ground. Thorin sheathed his sword and walked to the targets at the center of the ground with his head held high, ignoring the continued snickering from other boys:

“Mahal, but the harp…”

“I’m glad that my parents wanted me to play the viol…”

“Me too. Don’t want to be a harpist-maid…”

Thorin pretended that he had no interest in this silly chatter, but some of it seemed to get buried deep inside his heart like a poisoned arrow, and in the evening, when he came to his rooms, he passed his mellifluous favorite for the first time without touching it. Before it’d had a magic halo, but now he saw it for the plain thing it was: a fancily curved piece of wood, decorated with flourishing ornaments more suited for the boudoir of an elven maid then for the rooms of a dwarven heir.

As a prince Thorin had many things to learn yet, and soon music lessons were replaced by lectures on history and military science and apart from training he was taught blacksmith work. His harp was shoved in the far corner of his room and silently collected dust under the velvet cover.

During the training sessions with other young dwarfs Thorin, who always rushed into each fight as if it was his last, often gained the upper hand. The tutor only shook his head. The sons of the court lords were good fighters but no matches for Thorin, and easy victories gave the false and therefore dangerous notion of being invincible. Of course there was always individual sparring with the tutor himself but it didn’t solve the main problem – the prince needed a partner.

So when an angular youth with a defiantly rising mohawk entered the training grounds, the tutor took it as an answer to his prayers. Once he had known Fundin and he’d had the pleasure to teach his oldest son, and if the boy possessed even one half of his father’s and brother’s skill, training would never again be boring for the prince.

Being a seasoned warrior himself Fundin had spent almost twenty years in the Iron Hills as the ambassador of Erebor and military counselor of lord Grór. Due to his active help Grór managed to create a unique system of fortifications to protect the borders, and organize patrols in the area between the Grey Mountains and the elven wood together with his brother Thrór.

In the last years the situation in the lands had grown more and more restless and Thrór had called his old friend back to share his worries with him. Fundin returned to Erebor with his wife and two sons. The younger one was born in the Iron Hills and was unfamiliar with the impressive splendor of the Lonely Mountain.

The sons of the Erebor lords looked down haughtily on the gangly stripling, cracking jokes about ‘a rough yokel who hasn’t seen anything in his Mahal-forsaken place’ and laughing at his hairdo. That was, until Dwalin snorted, took his axe and stepped forward. The tutor caressed his beard with satisfaction observing Fundin’s son taking down three opponents within minutes without effort, and grinned when he saw reluctant respect in the eyes of the prince who watched the fight with genuine interest.

Within two weeks Thorin and Dwalin, who’d had the time to appreciate each other’s skill and strength on the training ground and outside, got practically inseparable. The prince couldn’t wait to show his new friend all the secret stairs and hidden passages fit to hide from the omnipresent guards, and when the palace had been examined to the last nook, they set their feet on the lower levels, exploring forsaken galleries and caverns washed out by the underground river. More than once they took mattocks and tried to find gems in the rock or swiped the sweets right from under the nose of the king’s bakers as well as ale and beer from the cellar. They dropped in on Balin who had the talent to turn any boring lecture, such as ‘The history of trade agreements between the clans of the Longbeards and Broadbeams’ or ‘The characteristic properties of mithril-silver alloys’ into an exciting story. They also looked after Thorin’s younger brother together, teaching him some nifty tricks that gave him advantage even over a stronger opponent. And it was Dwalin, the only one apart from immediate members of the family, who, contrary to all rules and rituals, got to see the newborn princess Dís.

Having crept silently into his mother’s rooms Thorin cautiously took the small bundle out of the gilded cradle and lifted the corner of the embroidered lacy coverlet, proudly displaying his little sister’s puffed up face to his friend. The little princess yawned, her long thick eyelashes fluttering slightly. Thorin smiled at her.

“She’s got beautiful eyes,” Dwalin said, looking up to his friend. He almost added ‘just like yours’ but caught himself in the last moment, supposing that the prince probably wouldn’t appreciate such a comparison.

The baby whined with a frown and stirred in her brother’s arms. Thorin threw a worried glance at the door leading to his mother’s bedroom. He understood that any moment his sister could burst out crying.

“Shhh…” Dwalin lowered his head, murmuring quietly.

The little princess opened her tiny mouth, staring at his hair with interest.

“She likes you mohawk,” grinned the prince.

“Babies usually like the braids,” disagreed Dwalin. “My brother used to tell me, that when I was a babe I could grasp at a beard with such force that it was impossible to pull it back out again.”

“Everybody has braids,” said Thorin, carefully putting the baby back into the cradle. “But this one I haven’t seen before.”

“So what?” Dwalin frowned, remembering well how the other boys in Erebor were mocking his hairdo.

“Nothing,” Thorin shrugged. “It suits you.”

 

***

“Ooh! That’s it!” The two young dwarves rushed into Thorin’s rooms and toppled down on the sofa.

Having slipped away from their tutors, they had managed to sneak outside to visit the famous fair in the city of Dale, and on their way back they had nearly been caught by the guards at the Front Gates. Fortunately they had turned into a secret passage hidden behind a tapestry and their long cloaks with hoods had hidden their clothes and faces so that all the guards could see were two vague figures who ran past the sentry.

“Do you want some beer?” Thorin asked.

“Sure!” Dwalin grinned widely.

The prince rolled out the pin of beer hidden behind the sofa and generously poured two tankards, which they drained within moments.

“We’ve made them run.” Thorin filled the tankards again.

“Do you think they recognized us?” Dwalin drank half of his beer in one gulp.

“Hardly. Anyway, they can’t prove it. Officially we were in the library, writing an essay about the Battle of Thousand Caves. Fain will confirm it if asked.”

“What did you promise him to get him to do that?”

“I promised not to tell his brother that he peeped at the dwarrowdams in the women’s part of the bathing halls.”

“But we were there too!”

“And you thought that I took him with us just for fun?”

Dwalin burst out laughing. He gulped down the remnants of his beer and light rivulets ran down his cheeks covered with thick stubble and dripped inside his collar. He thumped his tankard down on the table and wiped his chin. His gaze suddenly fell on the quiver with arrows in the corner.

“Do you shoot the bow?”

“A little. You know master Reghin – ‘In a fight there are no useless skills,’ Thorin expertly imitated the leisurely manner of their tutor’s speech.

“They were training us too, in the Iron Hills,” said Dwalin, “but it’s not my kind of weapon. I’m not an elf to run through the forest with a bow.”

Thorin imagined Dwalin in a long elven dress with an elven bow and snorted.

“Aye, you’d better throw the axes.”

Dwalin followed his gaze and saw two short axes over the fireplace. He came closer and ran his finger along the identical engravings on the handles.

“Fine work!”

“My father has forged them himself,” Thorin said proudly. “And the sword too.”

Dwalin look around with interest. He had never been here before, and these rooms could tell much about their owner. A lot of weapons hung on the walls, all decorated with gold and gems. Against the opposite wall there were a few high bookcases filled to the brim with books and scrolls. Half a dozen impressive manuscripts were piled up on the table next to the inkstand and the heap of parchments was pressed down by a small dagger. Despite of servant’s efforts, items were scattered under the table, on the chairs, armchairs, the sofa and the floor - different clothes and parts of armor, some tools, half-finished metal pieces yet to be forged, broken quills and burned candles. And Balin had always scolded him for his mess of a room!

All of a sudden his glance fell on a large object standing in the corner, covered with a velvet cloth.

“What’s this?” Dwalin walked over and reached up with his hand, pulling off the dusty cover. He had never seen such a beautiful instrument! Delicate carvings decorated the column, and a thin inlay pattern ran along the frame twining around it like some magic plant. Dwalin cautiously touched the polished wood.

“It belongs to you?”

“No, to Durin the Deathless,” snapped Thorin, who had already expected a mocking comment.

“Would you play something?”

“What?” Thorin couldn’t hide his confusion.

“Well, you can play it, can’t you?” Dwalin turned to him.

 _Could he really want me to? That’s impossible!_

Thorin came closer looking at his friend suspiciously, but Dwalin just stared at him calmly with genuine interest and… admiration?

The prince moved the harp in the middle of the room and hooked on to the chair with his foot, pulling it closer. He sat down, making himself comfortable and touched some strings tentatively. Made by the best dwarven masters, the instrument easily kept the tuning for many years even if it had’t been used. Thorin ran his fingers across the gleaming silver strings and the harp answered with a quiet tinkle as if greeting its owner. Thorin closed his eyes and concentrated on the familiar sensation of tight metal cords under his fingers and the clear, vibrating sound enveloping him with its beauty…

Like every dwarf Dwalin loved music. Grór had skilled musicians and on high days and holidays all the courtiers with their families enjoyed lyrical ballads and went dancing to the joyful chords of flutes and drums. Since his childhood Dwalin himself had learned to play the little fiddle and the impressive viol, and an old musician from the court orchestra even taught him to play one strange instrument, looking like a water-skin with many sticks. But he had never witnessed anything like this.

The weightless, floating melody was reflected by the stonen walls and filled the room with a lucid silver tinkle. Dwalin closed his eyes and it seemed to him that he could hear the gentle babbling of a clear silvan brook running under the leafy shade from the foot of the mountain to the green valley. He heard the chirping of birds in the waking pine-forest when the first tentative rays of the rising sun touched the tops of the giant trees, gilding the dark needles in gold, and felt the quiet breath of the wind caressing his face on the observation point of the highest tower of Erebor. Somehow the enchanted song seemed extremely sad, reminding him of something long forgotten, and at the same time dazzlingly joyful. It called to the distant lands and brought hope, certain as the new dawn. Every sound seemed to get into his heart, making it tremble painfully and respond to the magic of the silver strings.

Dwalin opened his eyes and his breath caught in his throat. The music was incredibly beautiful, but the musician was even more so. The prince, with his head slightly inclined to the left, seemed to embrace the harp, giving himself over to playing. His nimble fingers moved expertly, pinching the thinnest cords, his glossy hair with shining beads in the tight braids was flowing down over his shoulders, and there was a quiet serene smile playing on his lips.

Having touched the tight strings for one last time Thorin put his hands down. The trembling cords stilled slowly. The final chord died away and the prince opened his eyes as if waking from a long slumber.

Dwalin wanted to say how much he had loved the song, convey his delight, but something clenched hard inside his chest and he couldn’t even take a breath. Thorin stood up and looked at him, waiting for his reaction.

“It was…” Dwalin opened his mouth and understood that he had no words for it. Everything he could think of seemed foolish, pathetic, clumsy in comparison with the tune he had just heard.

The prince approached slowly, staring into his eyes, and Dwalin made another attempt.

“It was so…” he felt a blush rising up his neck and covering his cheeks.

Impossibly bright, beaming eyes were right before him, and Dwalin sighed helplessly, drowning in the shining blue.

“So…”

Without thinking he reached out and pressed his lips against the dry ones of his friend. The touch made him shudder and he recoiled, looking worryingly at Thorin, startled by his own actions. Thorin’s black lashes closed and then opened widely in surprise, and his face was lit up by a mischievous smile.

“Really?”

Dwalin’s heart thumped wildly in his chest, his palms became wet and his clothes seemed unbearably tight at once, but through the uproar of the blood in his ears he still heard that magic music that gave him invisible wings and made him fly. Instead of answering he leaned forward, and their second kiss could neither be called accidental, nor chaste.

 

***

Their careless youth came to an end the day the dark shadow of giant wings fell on the Lonely Mountain. The beautiful harp perished in the dragon’s fire. As did Thorin’s mother.

Having lost many of their kin, homeless and overwhelmed with grief, those who were lucky to escape shuffled along in silence on the scorched and barren land for many weeks, looking for refuge. The old king’s mind grew dim with sorrow, and the crown prince with his faithful advisers had to take responsibility as the leader of the outcast people.

Many months of wandering passed, of hard exhausting labour in human villages in order to earn shelter and food, shabby clothes instead of regal attire, and heavy hammers falling down on pieces of metal with boiling rage, saved for the sworn enemy. Hardships and suffering formed the will of the prince into the likeness of a strong blade. But nothing could prepare him for the horrible outcome of the Battle at the Gates of Moria. Dwalin still remembered his hollow gaze, when their young – too young! – king, who had lost his father, grandfather and brother in the battle, glanced over the valley, littered with the bloodied bodies of their kin.  
All these years spent far from their homeland Dwalin was near. He knew that it was not in his power to alleviate the burden of the king’s duty, but he had always been there to support or share the pain from numerous losses and the leaden weight of despair.

Hardships, utter misery and starvation all but stifled the merriment. Rarely the dull routine of a camp was disturbed by the lonely voice of a flute, played by some dwarf to please his betrothed, or mothers quietly humming lullabies to their children, guarding their dreams from nightmares, and warriors sittting down and singing a song to remember and commemorate their fallen brothers.

A lot of time passed before marriages were contracted and little dwarflings born in their settlement in the Blue Mountains, raising hope amongst the people once more. The vast halls were filled with the sounds of a solemn, exultant music, drinking songs were sung, and heavy boots stamped the stone floor in rhythm of a merry dance.

The king himself rarely took part in these revels. He never stayed long after the end of the official ceremonies, was not the one to forget himself in a binge. Rare were the days when his rich resonant voice could be heard under the high vaults, forging his hidden pain into a wistful song. When his sister, looking with a smile at her sons who were tormenting their violins, offered him to order a new instrument, he shook his head dismissively. There had always been more important matters than wasting his time on trifles.

Dwalin didn’t argue then. He never considered it a trifle. But he had memories and memories were enough. That old tune, heard many years ago in Erebor, was still playing in his head. It seemed that it had dissolved in the air and was following him wherever he went. He heard charming chords of the harp in the ringing of dripping snow in spring; in the clatter of the hoofs of his tireless pony, taking him from one village to another; in the rustle of the dry grass under his feet and in the clank of the blades clashing with each other… The magic of the silver strings, having enchanted him once, never let him go.

Only once the tender tinkling of the harp made place for the roaring beat of the drums – when they heard the resounding tramping of thousands of feet and a dark moving horde filled the valley at the foot of the Lonely Mountain. And then… then there was only the clashing of metal, crunching bones, the wails of the wounded and the moans of the dying. And silence. Absolute, deafening silence, when he didn’t hear Balin’s quiet consolations, nor Glóin’s curses, nor the worried cries of the young princes, full of unshed tears – for those three long days while his king lay unconscious and his soul was wandering somewhere, having lost its way back.

And then a quiet whisper that escaped Thorin’s almost unmoving lips seemed louder to Dwalin than a blowing horn, and all of a sudden there was a whole orchestra playing in his head, and everything else didn’t matter.

 

***

“Dear friend!” Bofur rises from his place with another toast. “Mahal bless this quest that brought us all together many years ago! I’m happy to have fought with you back to back… I’ll never forget how we hacked those monsters to pieces in Goblin town! And do you remember escaping from the elven dungeons? And fighting with the spiders?! Oh…”

He shakes his head and his long salt-and-pepper braids begin to dance. Nori, who sits next to him, uses his momentary distraction and replaces his tankard with ale with a horn, brought by Ori, and filled to the brim with the strongest mead.

“To the best warrior in all the Middle-earth, to Dwalin, son of Fundin!” proclaims Bofur and raises the horn to his lips drinking it in one draught.

“To Dwalin!”

“To the son of Fundin!”

With rousing cheers the dwarves empty their tankards, banging them on the table and burst out laughing at a puzzled Bofur who looks in wonder at the horn in his hand. Nori and Ori exchange winks behind his back and high five.

The princes leave their spouses to Dís and begin to pour out the ale. Kíli fills the tankards from the barrel and Fíli slides them across the table to the guests. He has always been a strong dwarf, but aiming with a single good eye is not an easy task even for a sober person, so the game ‘Catch the tankard before it hits you in the face’ gets more and more exciting with each round. Safely delivered tankards are met with triumphant shouts and ale spilled over the clothes and table – with roaring laughter.

Dwalin swiftly stops the tankard sent to him on the very brink of the table and nods to Fíli asking for one more.

“It’s about time for their own children to wed, and they are still making merry like prankish boys,” Thorin snorts.

Dwalin hides his grin. The princes have enough wit and self-control when needed and Thorin knows it better than him. But the holiday is reason enough to have fun.

Congratulations and toasts follow one after another, ale and wine flow like water, dwarves and dwarrowdams – Dwalin’s kin and friends and their relatives are enjoying themselves. Dwalin looks over his tankard at a tipsy Ori, who recites his own verses, and a thought comes to his mind that his brother would have definitely liked the party.

Balin… It’s been four years without him. Four years. Every day. Brother…

After the battle Balin had been busy establishing relations and defusing conflicts (and there were plenty of them) with neighbors and spent whole months in the Iron Hills and in the elven palace. And then there was Esgaroth – rebuilt from ashes and attracting wandering merchants – and Dale, restored in its old glory with loud trade fairs and endless treaties; there were constantly arriving caravans from the Blue Mountains and envoys from all six clans – all these worries almost didn’t leave time for brothers to talk to each other. Only during the last years, when Fíli and Kíli had started to delve into the affairs of state, Balin finally had an opportunity to devote part of his time to the things he loved most of all: the studying of old chronicles and manuscripts that had miraculously survived the years of dragon ravage. He used to say with a sly smile that he was fated to end his days near the fireplace surrounded by his favourite books and with a glass of a fine aged wine… Who could have known that orcs would attack their small delegation on their way back from Dáin?  
One dozen of dwarves against half a hundred orcs. A dozen, that send one third of the attackers back to Morgoth. Dwalin had received the report too late. He came with his squadron tearing up the ranks and not leaving a single orc alive, not a corpse whole. Holding tightly onto his brother’s cold hand he stuttered that Balin wouldn’t have to wait for him too long. And his brother smiled, like he had done in their childhood when little Dwalin was saying something stupid, and told him sternly “Don’t you dare hurry…“

But hurry or not, only a few dwarves had the chance to live longer than two hundred fifty five. Dwalin can’t say that it saddens him. He has lived a long life full of fights and victories. And now, looking back he doesn’t regret a single moment. He has loved and has been loved in return, he has always been respected by his people and surrounded by his friends and kin. But sometimes, he had an occasional thought that something was missing. Perhaps it’s time to change it?

Bofur brings up his flute, his cousin follows his example at once and soon there’s a merry tune flowing across the hall. Thorin’s grand-nephews take their violins, some young dwarves get to the drums, the rest begins to move the tables against the walls, and little by little the center of the hall fills with dancing dwarves. Two beautiful dwarrowdams approach the table where the hero of the festivities sits with the members of the company. Without paying attention to the princes who turn around immediately, the blond lady smiles charmingly at Dwalin, and the ginger one makes an elegant curtsey, looking at the king. Thorin caresses his braided beard and holds out a hand to his niece-in-law, taking her to the center of the hall. Dwalin grins widely at the blond dwarrow-lady, lifts her effortlessly by the waist and twirls her in a merry dance.

“You should know better than to leave your wives alone,” Dís smirks. Fíli and Kíli shut their mouths and turn to their mother. She looks gorgeous in her dark blue velvet dress, decorated with diamonds and silver embroidery, with her hair beautifully done.

“Mum! May we ask you?” The princes simultaneously take her hands and lead her into the joyful round dance…

 

***

“Shouldn’t we stay for a while longer?” The steps of the king and his adviser seem loud in the large hallway. Thorin’s gaze slides over the guards standing at attention at the entrance to the royal rooms. “The celebrations aren’t over yet.”

“The youth will be partying until dawn,” Dwalin mutters into his beard. “I’m too old for that.”

Thorin snorts quietly. Dwalin shouldn’t be one complaining about his age. Despite his constant grumbling, he could easily overpower any of the younger warriors and not only in fight but in drinking too.

They reach the hallway leading to Thorin’s chambers.

“Wait,” Thorin stops with a frown and Dwalin catches him by the arm when he sways from the sudden halt. “What about your present? You wanted me to fulfill your wish…”

“In the bedroom,” Dwalin grins at the sight of Thorin’s cheeks going a dark shade of rose. Thorin shakes his head, murmuring under his beard about some things that don’t change with time, and makes his way to the chambers. Dwalin follows closely behind him. It comes from an old habit – to always be near, one step behind his friend, alert for any possible danger, ready to shield his king from attack and execute his orders. And admiring him too. The years were merciful to the king-under-the mountain, and many visitors, seeing him for the first time in the vast Throne Hall, used to stand still and stare, admiring his sturdy, yet not bulky figure, his head raised high with a mithril crown upon his brow and the thick silver mane threaded with black gleaming dimly in the light of hundred torches and lamps. The weight of everyday worries has marked Thorin’s face by way of the deep lines tracing his high forehead and the shadows under his eyes, but his bright gaze is keen as always, his voice rich and sonorous and his hands – strong and firm.

Dwalin closes the door, lays his weapons on the table and starts stirring the embers in the fireplace. Thorin takes off his heavy mantle and lights the candles in the massive silver holder.

“So, what is your wish?” Thorin’s gaze travels through the room curiously as if looking for a hint. “What the..?”  
He approaches the large object with a vaguely familiar outline standing under the lightwell and draped with a velvet cloth. Slowly he raises his hand and pulls off the cover.

“Dwalin…” Thorin turns to his friend with a frown. Dwalin’s eyes have that strange gleam in the dim candlelight.

The harp looks like the one from Thorin’s youth – the same rich decoration and elegant carving. The king strokes the polished wood. The mark says that it was made by the same family of dwarven masters as its predecessor. How long has it been?.. No, Dwalin couldn’t want him to… It’s impossible!

“Dwalin, I can’t…” he shakes his head.

“Thorin, I’m two hundred and fifty. I don’t know how much time I have left,” Dwalin says calmly. He holds up his hand to prevent any further arguments from Thorin. “And I swear, I’ll leave for the Halls of Mahal with a light heart. But before I do…”

Dwalin comes closer to Thorin, takes his hand and leans his face against it.

“…you can call me an old sappy dork, but I want to hear you play once more.” He turns his head, pressing his lips against Thorin’s palm.

Thorin sighs and closes his eyes for a moment. Dwalin lets go of his hand and steps into the corner. Thorin draws up a chair, looks hesitantly at the fine instrument with a glowing nacreous pattern and lowers his gaze to his hands adorned with numerous rings – his fingers have long lost the agility of youth, his skin is rough from many years of smithing and calloused from fighting… But it’s not this that bothers him most – he hasn’t played it in almost two hundred years! But the king can’t break his promise.

Thorin sits on his chair, breathes in and slides his fingers slowly over the thin silver strings. They tremble at the touch and answer with the first tentative sound. It tinkles quietly and spreads in the vast royal chambers, raising memories of a distant past… Thorin’s fingers move on their own, running over the strings as if trying to weave a magic tune from the flickering threads.

A happy careless childhood: his mother’s eyes radiant with joy and love, the deep voice of his father, a proud grandfather’s smile… The feeling of a sword in his hand, the high vaults of the training halls and the large tunnels of the underground city lit brightly with torches… Pranks shared with his brother and his little sister’s laughter… His friend – the only one whom he could tell everything, with whom there was nothing to hide…  
The harp moans, responding to the flashes of his memories: the fire and the walls falling in, the dust on the endless road raised by the wind getting into his eyes, freezing nights spent out in the open and the heat of the forge in human villages, ghostly figures and muted sounds in the foggy canyons of the Misty Mountains and flames of huge pyres rising to the dark sky…

His fingers pinch the cords mercilessly and they tremble pitifully. The sharp tune full of pain and anguish reflects from the walls and the vault and comes down upon him in an engulfing wave…

Dwalin sits still in his armchair, his fingers clutching the armrests. Thorin raises his head slowly, staring with unseeing eyes at the flickering candlelight. He touches the strings gently as if apologizing for his harsh treatment earlier. The pattern changes again, and now Dwalin can hear the echoes of that old melody, of the magic song that made his heart melt with joy more than two hundred years ago. There is the silver splash of falling drops in it, and bird’s warbles and the sonorous clanging of forged metal, but the tune itself is a different one – richer and deeper and more powerful, like the narrow mountain stream that breaks into the valley and spreads widely, turning into a mighty, full-flowing river. There is sadness and unalleviated pain in this song, but they are prevailed by the light chords, sparkling with joy – like the rays of the midday sun caressing the cold shadowed earth.

Thorin turns his head and meets a sharp gaze. The years have creased Dwalin’s face with furrows and added the scars, but his eyes under the white bushy eyebrows are still young, beaming with warmth and admiration.  
The melody flows quietly through the king’s fingers, and the harp purrs contently, enjoying their cozy evening near the crackling fire.

The last chords fade in the lucid silence. Dwalin rises from his place and takes a few steps, without turning his gaze from his king. Thorin stands up smiling archly.

“So, how did you like it?”

And Dwalin knows the right answer.


End file.
